a year's worth of flowers
by Mending the Sky
Summary: Every day, John walks down to the graveyard and puts a single flower on a single grave. Each day the flower is different, but the grave is the same. REPOSTED.


**A/N: written: May 2012  
edited: August 21, 2013  
I don't own anything!**

Every day, John walks down to the graveyard and puts a single flower on a single grave. Each day the flower is different, but the grave is the same.

It's not really a sentimental gesture, but John has looked up the meaning for each flower, and he'd like to think that with these flowers, he can convey a message, words he can't bring himself to say, because _obviously _(he says the word in _his _voice), the person buried deep in the ground would know what each flower meant.

So John wouldn't have to say anything at all.

!

He walks down the path and leaves a single daffodil on the grave.

Daffodils mean _faith._

_You were not a fake. And I will never think for a second that you were._

!

The next day, he leaves a Canterbury Bell, a delicate purple flower he plucked from the greenhouse on the way over.

This flower means _gratitude._

He sniffles a bit, wipes his nose, and remembers: _I owe you so much. I owe you everything._

Deciding he wouldn't like to cry again today, he turns on his heel and walks off, pretending he can't feel the pain that's decided to take root in his leg again.

(He cries anyway.)

!

On the day following that he starts to bring his cane, leaning on it hesitantly; he's not exactly eager to have to resort to using it again. But that morning he woke up and stumbled into the kitchen, opening the fridge, and found himself utterly shocked that there wasn't a severed head or some other random body part looking back at him. Pain had sprung to his leg (but not just his leg) and he'd crumpled against the refrigerator for a moment, needing to catch his breath.

After he'd dressed, he'd stared at the cane for a long, long time before finally picking it up and taking it with him to the cemetery.

Today's flower is an Eglantine Rose, a small pink flower with tiny thorns that prick his fingers before he deposits it atop the other flowers.

_There is a wound to heal._

!

His cane breaks the silence that has settled over the cemetery as he limps along the pathway. Eventually he breaks off the beaten path and cuts towards _his _grave. There's still a tiny pile of flowers, untouched from the days before, and John hobbles towards it, today's flower clutched tightly in his fist.

The grave is shielded protectively by the shade of a red oak tree. The grass leading to it is trampled only by John's feet; no one else visits this grave. One would think that with all the help the person buried here offered that more people would at least pay their respects, but then again, why would the public repay someone who is now perceived as a fraud?

John exhales stiffly through his nose. He did not come here today to think of that. He came to offer another flower to his dead friend: an olive. It means _peace._

Yes, peace (no, not peace). John has (not) decided that he is finally at peace with the death of his friend. Now he can (still can't) move on with his life and pretend (no, he can't pretend) the whole thing never happened.

He tosses the flower onto the pile almost disdainfully and dares to speak for the first time since after the funeral. "You know what that one means, yeah?" He pauses as if expecting an answer.

He can almost hear him: "_Obviously."_

Swallowing a knot of something unidentifiable in his throat, John continues: "Well, I mean it. I'm . . . at peace." But his voice is unsteady and it cracks halfway through and even someone who wasn't amazing like _he _was would know that he was lying. "I'm . . . I'm at peace," he repeats, as if assuring himself.

With that, he turns and attempts to make a swift getaway, shuffling along as quickly as he can with that damn cane. Tears are already welling in his eyes. _Peace. Peace. You're at peace._

His cane hits a small break in the ground and he stumbles. His balance heavily on the cane, he tumbles forward and lands on his stomach, face smacking against the grass.

For a moment he just stays sprawled there, catching his breath and registering what just happened. And then, he begins to cry, ugly, awful sobbing.

He has shattered the _peace_ of the graveyard.

!

One day after leaving a rosemary on the grave (it's been six months since the funeral and John wants him to know that he still _remembers _everything-that's what this flower means), John looks up and thinks he sees a figure ducking behind a tree across the graveyard. For a moment he squints, craning his neck, but he sees nothing, so he curses his imagination and limps back out of the graveyard.

!

John continues to leave flowers for weeks to come; Marigolds (pain), aloe leaves (grief), pink carnations ("I'll never forget you"), thistles (nobility). Anything he can find. He imagines _him _deducing each meaning. Weeks bleed into months, which eventually string along into the following year. The pile of flowers is huge and most of them are dead by now, but John continues to go to the cemetery routinely, leaving a new agony on the grave every day.

But then one day he goes to the grave and each one of his flowers is _gone._

!

He doesn't know who would be so awful as to steal flowers from a _grave, _but he can't bring himself to hate this person, or even really care. He supposed it was about time he stopped putting flowers there, anyway. It wasn't like _he _was actually somewhere in the afterlife (which didn't exist, according to _him_) _deducing_ each meaning and calling John an idiot. Maybe he should quit while he's ahead. It's all pointless, he thinks.

So he stops bringing flowers.

!

One day, he returns to the flat after a somber brunch with Molly, and he immediately senses that something is terribly wrong.

He freezes instantaneously after walking through the front door, barely past the threshold, cane poised above the floor as he stops mid-step. His brow furrows, he scans the room, and comes up with nothing, but something is off; he feels it.

Nevertheless he takes off his jacket and hangs it back on the hook, next to the deerstalker hat (it hasn't moved since, well, _then_), and continues into the flat, closing the door behind him. He makes his way into the kitchen and goes to make himself some tea.

The teapot is already out, as are two saucers, one of which has another full teacup rested upon it. John pauses and looks at it, head cocked to the side; he swore he'd put it up last night after making some for Ms. Hudson. Even then, it'd been empty; now it's half-full and warm to the touch. Recently made.

John is still utterly befuddled, so befuddled that he doesn't hear the footsteps coming from down the hall.

He looks up and sees a ghost, holding a year's worth of dead flowers and the other cup of tea.

"Thanks for the flowers, John."


End file.
